No Man's Land
by upsidedownlove
Summary: Curly's troubles are only beginning when he loses that poker game, and things are about to get whole a lot worse. Warning: Lots of cursing.


S.E. Hinton owns everything. Please Review. :)

* * *

**Chapter One**

"Fork it over, Curly," Steve said, a smug look painted across his face.

"You got lucky, Randle," Curly hissed, reluctantly tossing the bag of weed at Steve. Tim was gonna kill him. He was supposed to sell that shit, not lose it in a poker game.

After a moment or two of pitying his loss, he grumbled, got up and left without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. He'd just been swept clean by Steve fuckin' Randle; everything he'd walked in with was now in that fucker's possession.

Fuck poker. Contrary to what he thought, apparently that game did require a certain level of skill. _It was bullshit_, he told himself. Randle got all the good cards while he got jack shit. The asshole probably cheated his way to victory, too, for all he knew. All he knew was Tim was gonna beat the living tar out of him for betting the last of his weed; not to mention the customer that was supposed to get that bag was gonna have a shit. It'd be another week or two before they'd get the next shipment in, due to some issues Tim'd been having with the supplier.

It wasn't his fault, though. He was supposed to win that final hand and all that Steve'd laid down on the table. He had a flush, for chrissakes; Randle wasn't supposed to have anything better.

Tim was right, he supposed; his luck was worse than a fish's chance at living on dry land. He sighed heavily and trudged his way on home, hoping he could somehow avoid Tim in the process. If he kept up his walking pace, he would. It was only a quarter past midnight, and Tim probably wouldn't be home til one at the earliest.

After a few minutes in fresh air, his itch for a cigarette began to get the best of him. Instinctively, he reached into his back pocket for a cig only to realize it was empty. _Goddamit_. He'd even bet his half-smoked pack of cigs, and he was starting to think he really was an idiot. Grumbling, he kicked the rock in front of him as hard as he could.

Finally, after what felt like the longest walk ever, he made it home. The second he got through the door, he thanked his creator his big brother was no where in sight. He headed straight for his room, slamming the door behind him.

He threw himself on the bed and buried his head completely into his pillow, trying to drown out the noise his mom and his douche bag of a stepfather, Bill, were making. _You'd think they'd give it a rest at this hour_, he thought to himself, but then remembered they'd been known to go at it way into the wee hours of the night.

_Fuck them_, he thought. _Fuck_ _everything_.

00000

Curly woke up the next morning to find himself being slammed up against the wall by Tim.

"What the hell'd you do with it?" he barked, thrusting him against the hard surface again.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbled, groggily, "Good morning to you, too, Tim."

"I don't have time for this. Where the fuck is it? Peter's been on my ass all morning over the weed you were supposed to give him."

"Peter who?" Curly played dumb; he knew damn well Peter was the River King he was supposed to sell to. He also knew his small act of stupidity could be the straw that broke the camel's back to the tension between the River King's and Tim's gangs. It'd been building for a while, and knowing them, they'd probably blow the smallest thing out of proportion.

He could only imagine the shit he'd started. The first signs of the aftermath were written all over Tim's face.

Tim growled at his feeble attempt to evade the question and slugged him right in the gut.

Curly groaned. "Fucking hell, Tim."

"Where is it?" he repeated. "You smoke it?"

"I wish," Curly said.

Tim was glaring at him, like he was trying to burn holes in the back of his skull, and he nearly cowered. As much as his tuff reputation'd hate to admit, Tim scared the living shit out of him sometimes.

"I…uh…lost it in a poker game to Randle." Curly decided to just give him the truth. Tim was gonna get it out of him one way or another eventually

"You fuckin' lost it to Randle? Steve fuckin' Randle?"

"Yeah…that'd be the guy." Curly smirked and gave a slight chuckle, hoping Tim might find a little humor in the situation. It was kinda funny when he really thought about it. This had to be one of the more interesting ways he'd fucked up.

It was hardly shocking that Tim didn't, though. He glared at him and loosened his grip on him. "You ain't even worth the trouble ya bring," he growled, letting him fall to the ground.

Curly bit his lower lip, letting the insult sink in. Part of him was wishing Tim had just clobbered him. He looked up to Tim, admired him, aspired to be just like him. That was a pretty harsh blow to the gut. Hurt even worse than the physical one he'd gotten earlier, if he had to be honest with himself. He shrugged it off, though. Tim'd get over it eventually, and the last thing he wanted to do was engage in self-pity.

He groaned when he heard the doorbell ring and pulled himself off the floor. He moved to answer it, staggering as he walked; he was still groggy, and Tim knocking him around hadn't helped any. By the pounding sensation in the back of his head, he figured he was probably a little hungover, too.

When he got to the door, he openly it quickly and simply grunted as a greeting.

"Where were you?" the girl demanded. The second he heard her voice, he immediately noticed this was just any girl; this was his girlfriend, Louise.

"Uh...asleep? Like most normal people on a Sunday."

"You promised me you'd meet me in church."

He scoffed at the statement. Him? Church? Never. He must've been mighty plastered to promise her such a thing.

"Don't you blow me off, you asshole!" she screeched. "I told my mother you were gonna be there. This was supposed to make her like you, remember?"

"Uh…no." It was beyond him why he'd give a fuck whether or not her mother digged him.

She sighed loudly and pulled him into a quick kiss. "You're lucky you're so damn cute," she said, pulling away. "I'm starting to wonder if you're really worth the effort."

Curly groaned inwardly. That wasn't the first time he'd heard that today; who was next? God?

"Hey, me and a few friends are having a little get together at my place. Seven o'clock. Be there, for once."

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

"I mean it, Curly. You ain't the only guy I could be with, you know." She was telling the truth. She was gorgeous enough she could have any man she wanted right at her feet, if they were willing to put up with her personality, that was.

"Hey…baby…I promise," he drawled, leaning in to kiss her. She may have been a pistol, but he digged that. He wasn't one for the docile, innocent girl. As far as he was concerned, he wanted his girl to be just as bullheaded as he was. More fun that way.

Instead of returning the kiss, she slapped him across the cheek. "That's for missing church," she said sharply. "Now don't disappoint me again!"

He moved to rub his cheek as she trotted off. How the fuck was a girl like her God-fearing? The only answer he could think of was that the Lord himself wanted him to suffer.


End file.
